


Hot Cup of Cocoa

by sandy_s



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Coffee Shops, F/M, Fire, Gifts, Hot Chocolate, Marshmallows, Surprises, live journal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:15:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28293690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandy_s/pseuds/sandy_s
Summary: Set in AtS Season 5. It’s Christmas time. Fred unexpectedly has a gift for Spike, and Dawn has a present that she suspiciously needs Buffy to deliver. Total utter schmoop written for Uninterested5678! Merry Christmas!Written for Elysian Fields Secret Santa 2020. :o)Disclaimer: I own nothing. Joss owns all.
Relationships: Spike/Buffy Summers
Kudos: 19





	Hot Cup of Cocoa

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Uninterested5678](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Uninterested5678/gifts).



> The title comes from the song, “Hot Cup of Cocoa,” sung by the VonTrapp children. (I'd like to think that Spike might like this song. Haha.)  
> https://youtu.be/vQYHSxWsJfs 
> 
> Special tribute to LJ and its popularity in fandom at the time of this fic! See the end for info.
> 
> Thank you to Cosmic Tuesdays for offering to listen to me ramble about my idea. lol This is the third story I started for Secret Santa.

Fred unfolds the colorful, glittery snowman gift bag and tucks her gift inside. Artfully arranging the tissue on top, she smiles. Memories of Christmases in Texas with a huge tree and piles of presents underneath flood her mind. Her mom and dad still had Santa gifts for her well past the age when she knew he wasn’t real. Correction. He was real; he just lived in her heart.

Christmas is strange now. For some reason, working at Wolfram and Hart takes away some of the magic. She can’t be naïve now – not that she ever was after her professor and Pylea. But still, she has been determined to spread a little holiday cheer among her co-workers, supplying them with Santa hats and each their own individual stocking. She can’t wait to stuff them full of goodies she knows they’ll love.

The contents of the little bag before her won’t go in a stocking though. With a sigh, she pulls out her cell phone and dials a number. She gazes at the tiny, colorful tree glowing in her apartment as the connection is made and the other person’s phone rings and rings.

When she’s about to give up, a hasty sounding voice says, “What the bloody? Oh, hello?”

Fred giggles. “Spike?”

“Fred? What’s going on? How do you have this number?” He sounds flustered.

“How do you have that phone?” she teases.

“I dunno. It just appeared in my pocket round about the time I became all solid again.”

“Soooo. . . ”

“You put it there.”

“I did. Well, I had someone get it to you. I was gonna to tell you about it, but then, everything went wonky.” Fred shudders at the memory of how everyone and everything in the law firm had been affected. “And then, you didn’t come back after you and Angel went after that – ”

“Cup of Perpetual Torment or whatever. Bloody Mountain Dew red herring.” Spike sounds reasonably embarrassed though she knows he’d never show Angel that side of himself.

“You haven’t come around,” she repeats. She misses him and never got to celebrate with him that he’s corporeal again.

“Ah, pet, I’m sorry.” He pauses a moment. “You should know it’s nothing to do with you. God, I sound like a ponce for even saying it. I’ll come ‘round soon. Just trying to suss out what to do with myself now.”

“I understand that.” More than he knows. She clears her throat to prevent her brain from going down that rabbit hole. “It’s Christmas, and I have somethin’ for you.”

“You do?” The surprise in Spike’s voice kind of breaks her heart a little.

“I do. And I know the law firm is not. . . well. . . Want to come by my place and pick it up?” Fred’s heart thumps in her chest. She has no idea if he’ll go for it.

The silence is deafening, and Fred presses the phone hard to her ear as if that will make him respond faster.

“Sure,” Spike finally says. “Why not? Know I’ll feel welcome there.” His words warm Fred’s heart.

* * *

“Welcome back,” Dawn greets Buffy as she pushes the hotel room door open.

“I can’t believe we came here.” Buffy flops on the chair. “Dad invites us here, and then, he doesn’t even spend time with us because he has a company Christmas party. And we have to stay in a hotel because her family is in town and has camped out in the guest room – the guest room that used to be my bedroom.”

“Well, it could be worse,” Dawn says as she wraps presents, using the hotel desk as her flat surface, “your room could be a ‘beauty room.’” Dawn can’t even look in her old room without rolling her eyes and feeling sad at the same time. It just doesn’t feel right and especially without Mom there.

Buffy lifts a tired finger at Dawn. “Very true.”

“I can’t believe she has that much makeup.”

“Me either. Who has time for that stuff?”

Dawn shrugs. “We used to. Before.”

“Before we created a bunch of Slayers that need helping and training. Whose brilliant idea was that?” Buffy asks with irony. Dawn knows Buffy feels guilty about this, but she hasn’t seemed quite as bothered as she would have been in times past. Dawn isn’t sure what to make of that.

“You were saving the world.” Dawn slides the scissors down the wrapping paper. “It’s not like we had many options.”

Buffy allows the rescue and squints at the box Dawn is lining up on the paper. “What are you wrapping? I don’t remember a box like that.”

Flustered, Dawn huffs, slamming down the scissors. Her sister isn’t allowed to see this yet. “Something I need a favor with.” Buffy opens her mouth, but before she can speak, Dawn continues, “Take a shower. You smell like cemetery.”

Buffy sniffs at her arm. “What does cemetery smell like?”

Dawn gives her an even look. “Recently deceased people who suck blood. You stake them. And the dust gets all over you. And maybe some sweat and blood. Like that dark stain on your jeans.”

Buffy juts her chin out. “I’ll have you know that there is no sweat and blood.” She studies her thigh. “Ugh.” She pushes herself up and heads for the bathroom, tossing her stake on the bed. “You’re bossy for a little sister.”

As Buffy slams the door and Dawn hears the stream of water starting, she refocuses on the gift in front of her. She has to get it wrapped before Buffy gets out of the shower.

* * *

Fred pours herself a glass of wine and picks up her plate full of Chinese food intending to flake out on her sofa and watch “While You Were Sleeping.” It’s her favorite comfort movie around the holidays when she’s single, and she’s very single this year, which oddly enough she doesn’t mind too much.

Just as she’s settling in with her favorite blanket, food situated on her lap, and VHS tape set up, there’s a knock on her door. She sits up. It can’t be Spike; she called him hours ago.

Torn between wanting to ignore the door and wanting to make sure it’s not Spike, she sighs and stares mournfully at her orange chicken, fried rice, and egg roll, which are rapidly cooling off.

But what if it’s Spike?

She sets aside her food and flings back the blanket, heading for the door and snagging Spike’s gift on the way. She doesn’t even bother to check the peephole and flings open the door to find the exact opposite person she expects.

“Angel? What are you doin’ here?” Fred manages, proud of herself for not stumbling.

“It’s Christmas Eve,” Angel says without further explanation.

Fred tries to stow the present on her entryway table, but she only succeeds in drawing Angel’s attention to it.

“Expecting someone?” Angel asks with amusement in his tone. “Someone special?”

Fred laughs a little. She loves Angel, but she really doesn’t want him here right now. “Er, um, no. I just was wrappin’ presents and about to eat some Chinese food and watch a movie.” She hesitates and then tacks on, “What can I do to help you?” Oh my god. She probably just made him more suspicious.

Angel shifts, and Fred considers from his expression that she’s super doomed.

Then, he says, “I was just coming by to see if you want anything for our holiday festivities tomorrow.” Angel has invited them all over to his place for a little shindig – something to celebrate the holiday and spend time with each other. They are, after all, family.

“No,” Fred answers, trying to sound casual but sounding way too firm instead, so she rattles onward. “Well, maybe make sure you have baking pans. I’m bringin’ stuff to make cookies, and oh, um, what about some ingredients for eggnog?”

“I can do that,” Angel says, watching her face as if trying to understand why she’s being awkward.

She wills him to leave. “Okay, well, then, I think I’m gonna get back to my Chinese food. It’s gettin’ cold.”

Angel looks like he might protest, but then, he relents. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Ten-ish?”

“Morning or evening?” This is important with vampires.

“Morning, I think. I can’t keep track of anything anymore.” Angel is awfully busy with his new job.

“Okay.” She puts her hand on the door and starts to close it.

Angel wraps his fingertips around the edge to stop her. “Have you seen Spike?”

No, and thank goodness. Angel would probably smell him. “Nope.”

“Okay. Thanks. Good night.” He’s gone again with little fanfare.

“Good night,” Fred whispers, swinging the door shut and sagging against it in relief. Within seconds, there’s another knock. This time, she peeks through the hole and sees a shock of bleached hair.

“Hi,” she says buoyantly in greeting as she re-opens the door. “You came. I was beginnin’ to think that you might not come.”

Spike glances over his shoulder as if looking for someone. “So, the big lug’s been here.”

“Yeah,” Fred starts and then realizes what he must be thinking. “But I wasn’t expectin’ him. He came by to invite me over for Christmas.”

“Doesn’t know how to use a cell phone then?” To Fred’s relief, Spike sounds mischievous.

“Apparently like someone else I know. He was lookin’ for you, too. If it helps, I didn’t tell him I talked to you.”

“It helps.”

Feeling self-conscious, she plucks the present from her table and thrusts it at him. “Here.”

Despite knowing she would be giving him something, Spike holds the bag with an awestruck expression on his face. “For me?”

Fred’s heart breaks a little. “Yes. For you.”

“I don’t know what to say. I, um, I don’t have anything for you.”

“It’s okay. I have everything I need. Wine. Chinese food. My favorite Christmas movie.”

Spike peers into the apartment, trying to see her TV. “Which one?”

“’While You Were Sleeping.’”

A smile tugs at the corner of Spike’s lips. “A good one, that.”

She holds back a laugh. “You’ve seen it? And remember it?”

“’Course I have. Lonely woman fantasizes about unrealistic love with a dark and mysterious man but falls for his lighter-haired, cynical brother instead. Bloke doesn’t forget about that kind of movie.”

This time, Fred laughs. “Remind me to invite you over for rom-coms and popcorn sometime.”

“I’ll take you up on that.” He gazes back at the present. “Thank you for this.”

Fred nudges the top of the bag and points to the folded tag. “Don’t open your gift now. I need you to take it to the address I wrote on here.”

Spike's expression is thoughtful. “It’s not a meet-up with Angel, is it?”

“No,” she says firmly. “Trust me.”

* * *

“It’s like you don’t even trust me,” Dawn says with a hint of her pouts of yesteryear. She even crosses her arms and pushes out her hip.

“Okay. Explain again why you let me shower and get in my PJ’s only to tell me that you want me to bring a present to some guy I don’t even remember from Sunnydale?” Buffy holds the carefully wrapped package to her chest despite her reservations, so Dawn has hope that all will go as planned. Now that Buffy is saying so, Dawn’s excuse is really flimsy.

“You have to remember him. You met him,” Dawn insists.

Buffy frowns at her. “Met him? Since when did I meet a guy friend of yours aside from that vampire you went out with on Halloween?” Her eyes grow round. “Oh, wait. R.J. I met R.J. God, I really want to forget that I met R.J.”

Dawn sighs. “You met Carlos on my first day at the new high school. You had an adventure together in the school basement after you and Kit fell through the floor together.”

“Oh. Now I remember.” Buffy doesn’t sound like she remembers.

“See? You just needed a little nudge. Now, go. Deliver my present to him.”

Buffy yawns. “You’re old enough to go by yourself, and you’re probably a better driver.”

Dawn tries not to roll her eyes because eye-rolling will lead to her sister being even more suspicious. Dawn’s counting on her being too tired to keep protesting. “Think of all the vampires and demons in L.A. I’m not that good.”

“But I never heard you talk about him after the basement thing. And how did you keep in touch after Sunnydale?”

Dawn knew this might come up in the planning. “Social media. Duh.”

“What social media? Why don’t I know about this?”

“You know this is taking way longer than it needs to, but if you must know. Live Journal.”

Buffy makes a face at her. “Live Journal? What’s that? Is it a demon-possessed journal? Do I need to slay it?”

This time the eyeroll flies free. “It’s just a journal. A place to write entries and share them with friends on the internet. We talk about TV shows. Some people post fanfiction and fanart. We vent about our lives. That kind of stuff.”

“Oh. I am way too tired to ask questions about that stuff.” Buffy straightens her shoulders just a little like she does when she’s about to give Dawn a public service announcement message. “Just be careful what you post. You never know when some nefarious person might do something. . . nefarious.”

“I am careful. You can lock your entries so only your friends can see them.”

“Like Carlos.”

“Exactly.” Dawn shifts around, aware of the time. “Please just deliver my present to him. The address is on the tag.” She doesn’t feel like it’s quite enough, so she adds, “He’s hanging at a coffee shop with his sister. I don’t know when he’s going to leave.”

Buffy heads back to the bedroom. “Fine.”

Dawn’s heart skips a beat. “Where are you going?”

Buffy calls back without looking over her shoulder. “I’m not wearing my pajamas to meet one of your friends. And last time I saw him, I had mom hair.”

Dawn plunks down in the desk chair in relief. After waiting a few minutes to make sure Buffy isn’t going to burst back into the room, Dawn slides her laptop onto her lap and pulls up a browser. Logging into Live Journal, she sends a message to lj-user scienceislife01. “Mission accomplished. Commence phase 2 with phase 3 on standby.” Then, she closes the browser and goes to raid the mini-bar for expensive chocolate. After all, her dad is paying.

* * *

Spike trusts Fred. Mostly. The bird does work for Angel and Wolfram and Hart after all. Too much trickery has been occurring in the law firm of late, and being corporeal again for god knows what reason and the resulting chaos is really messing with Spike’s mind. His fight with Angel didn’t help either though Spike had won the race to the cup of Mountain Dew.

So, as soon as he’s far enough away from Fred’s place, he borrows light from a local pawn shop display and plucks out the tissue paper from the snowman bag, letting the flimsy bits of paper float away on the breeze.

Squinting into the bag, he’s immediately confused. So confused that he pulls out the gift to make sure he isn’t seeing things.

A bag of bloody marshmallows? It’s the kind Buffy’s mum gave him for his hot chocolate.

What malarkey is this?

He almost drops the gift bag, but the address is attached, so he loops it over his hand. Then, he turns the bag of marshmallows over and over, studying the plastic for holes, sniffing it, and even listening for something nefarious.

Nothing. He frowns. It really is. . . just a sodding bag of marshmallows.

Question is: does he trust Fred enough to see who or what is at the address on the bag?

He doesn’t consider the quandary long because why the hell not? He’s been feeling like a fish out of water for too long. Focusing on a mystery of a different sort is probably not the worst thing he can do with his time. He peers at the address again and discovers that he’s gone in the completely wrong direction. Damn it.

With a growl of frustration, he pivots and heads toward his destination.

* * *

The streets of L.A. feel foreign to Buffy. She almost can’t fathom that she’s here after the shock of Sunnydale’s collapse, the loss of Spike, and the new reality of her life traipsing all over the world. It feels like she’s gone back in time to a place where she doesn’t fit anymore. Even when she came to see Angel before, it wasn’t this surreal.

Buffy strides with purpose toward the address of the coffee shop, using the little map Dawn drew for her. At least, Buffy has a mission tonight. Even if said mission is a lame cover story to deliver. . . something to Dawn’s sort-of, online boyfriend.

Buffy doesn’t know exactly how she feels about her sister having a whole other life online. Do those relationships count? Buffy’s mind quickly lands on yes because there is no other way they could have had friendships the way they’ve been living out of a suitcase, in vehicles of various kinds, and in countries where she should have felt far more out of place than L.A.

As she rounds a corner, she almost runs smack into a couple who are hurrying along probably to their car. She ducks her head and edges around them, an apology spilling past her lips.

Light fills her vision, and she’s suddenly faced with a coffee shop. . . the coffee shop.

Her fingers find the familiar curved metal handle – one she opened a thousand times before when she wasn’t the Slayer, one when she was just a teenage girl with dreams of a completely different life than she has now. She and her friends would gather here to gossip and drink mochas, or she would come with her mom and little sis in tow to split a decadent dessert. This isn’t her anymore, and yet, here she is at this door, in this town.

Taking a deep breath, she steps inside to face her past.

* * *

Spike catches a whiff of Buffy’s characteristic scent in the air as he strides along, and though he wavers, he dismisses the aroma as a hallucination.

Not being able to touch anything wasn’t the only odd thing about being incorporeal. He couldn’t smell or taste anything either. In his newly solid-state, everything is back to being tangible and real, hard and soft, loud and quiet as a mouse in church on Monday. It’s safe to say that his senses are more than a bit wonky.

He knows Buffy’s scent, but what he picked up is so vivid – as bright and tangible as his emotions when he was fighting Angel – that Spike thinks it can’t possibly be real. He pinches himself just to see if he’s dreaming.

He isn’t.

What’s Buffy doing in L.A.?

Coming to an abrupt halt in front of his destination, the first thing he sees beyond the numbers on the sign is the wreath on the door of the coffee shop. The decoration reminds him that it’s Christmas.

Relief washes over him – relief that if she is here in town, it’s possibly because she’s here for the holiday and not necessarily to seek out his grandsire. Her father lives here (or did), and that alone might give her reason to land here to celebrate.

Spike sways back and forth before the door. God, he’s fooling himself. The light from the fogged glass window beckons him inside, and the loss of her warmth – the loss of the lightness of her – suddenly punches him in the gut so hard he almost staggers.

He inhales deeply, trying to steady himself.

Still, her scent lingers in the air.

Right ponce that he is, he considers not opening that door. He died a champion in her eyes. Why the bloody hell would she even want to see him now? He’ll never be able to live up to that precedent. Yeah, maybe she might be thrilled to see him. But coming back from the dead is hardly a novelty now. The shine evaporates right off the initial ecstasy.

“Bloody hell,” he whispers aloud. He’ll be going all Dru before he knows it. Then, he realizes that he’s crushing the marshmallows to his chest. He loosens his grip and tries to fluff them up a little. That done, he straightens his shoulders, flings open the door, and dives in.

* * *

Already wary because the well-lit coffee shop is empty and a fire blazes in the stone fireplace, Buffy half-jumps out of her skin when she hears the door open behind her, punctuated by the rush of cool air that arcs in and the prickly feeling on the back of her neck that says, “Vampire.”

Somehow, she dumps Dawn’s present on the coffee bar and has her stake out of her purse and at the ready.

But then, her jaw drops open.

“Spike?” Her heart pounds in response to her query, and her every sense is telling her that yes, this is him.

“Buffy?” Spike sounds shellshocked, and if she has any doubts, his blue eyes are wide and naked as always with her. She sees. . . something there, something she can’t quite put her finger on, but it is enough to energize her.

Buffy’s feet move for her, spurred on by the hope rising in her chest, and she runs to him, flinging her whole self at him and wrapping him up in her arms. He’s solid. Oh, god. He’s solid and cool and not burning up. A sob escapes her throat, and she crushes him in her embrace, not caring how he’s here or where he’s been. He’s here now and holding her tightly back, and that’s all that matters.

He says nothing. She’s used to him saying a lot, talking and communicating. Well, except for that last year in Sunnydale when his soul was new and fresh, and oh, god. He’s not saying anything.

So, she feels the space with sound, pushing back from him, and landing on, “H-how?”

He falters and then says, “I still don’t rightly know.”

Buffy feels a rush of fear in her chest. “When?”

Spike’s face falls a little as if he can see her doubting him. “Not long, pet. It’s complicated.”

Heart aching, Buffy forces herself to wait; she owes him that.

When he sees her not jumping in, he keeps going. “Complicated because I’ve been all go-through-able. Unable to touch anything. Or smell or taste either. Hearing and seeing – kind of still functional. Burst out of that shiny bauble I wore to bring Sunnydale to its knees and somehow ended up at Wolfram and Hart with the ole grandsire.”

Buffy can’t wrap her mind around any of this. “No one told me,” is the only thing that she manages to say as tears fill her eyes.

He softens and takes a step toward her. When she moves away from him, he stands there with his shoulders slightly slumped. She glimpses the tears in his eyes then, and she can’t help herself. She hugs him again, her arms around his waist and her damp cheek pressed to his chest. He melts against her, sighing and holding her close again.

“I’m sorry, love. I really am.”

Buffy feels his tears in her hair and lands back on her original sentiment. “It doesn’t matter. You’re here now.” He lets out a grunt when she squeezes him again. “How are we both here?”

They answer at the same time.

“Fred sent me.”

“Dawn sent me.”

Buffy laughs, and Spike chuckles. She feels the vibration against her ear.

Then, he says, “That might explain the marshmallows.”

She gives him a funny look. “Marshmallows?”

“Fred gave me them as a gift and sent me here.”

Buffy remembers that Willow told her about Fred. She works for Angel. “Why would she – ?”

“She’s been trying her hardest to make me solid again. Well, she was until a box showed up at the law firm for me. I opened it and poof! I’m a real boy again.” He tilted his head as if putting two-and-two together. “As real as I’m gonna get.”

“But that doesn’t explain. . . ”

Buffy reluctantly disentangles herself from his embrace and rushes over to where she left Dawn’s gift. Spike hovers behind her as she rips off the wrapping paper. The box lid isn’t taped, so it slides off with ease, revealing a package of chocolate curls for melting and peppermint sticks for stirring. And there’s a tiny music box with a brilliant silver star cut on top, so it glints in the low light as if alive. Buffy spies a card tucked under the items with beautiful red and green vines along the edges of the envelope. Nestled in the center of the stationary, Dawn’s loopy cursive reads, “Buffy and Spike.”

As Buffy carefully opens the envelope, Spike picks up the music box and begins to wind it up – the sound of gears faint in the background. As he opens the lid, Buffy pulls out the card, which has two red cardinals perched on a snowy branch together. Music fills the air, and she recognizes the song as “The First Noel.” As the notes play, she reads Dawn’s note out loud.

“Dear Buffy,

You should know this wasn’t planned. Not really. Blame Willow. She was poking around the internet one day, googling about people we know and have lost touch with. When she did, she found Fred – the woman who contacted Willow about Angel’s latest soul restoration. Anyway, Willow told me about Live Journal (LJ for short), so I created one, too. It was a nice way to stay in touch with people. Well, people being Willow. And one day, when we were in France, and Willow was in Boston, she sent me a message on LJ. You’ll never guess what Fred told me. (Or you do because he’s probably standing right next to you, hopefully reading over your shoulder. Hi, Spike. I love you. I forgive you. This is my way of saying I’m sorry for not talking to you before you died.) Anyway, Willow told me Spike was back and struggling, and Fred had reached out to her for advice. I reached out to Fred, and we started chatting on Instant Messenger. We’ve been planning this reunion together. Willow, too. It was originally supposed to be at Wolfram and Hart, but Spike went all solid again. So, now he’s there with you. It was the only place in L.A. I remembered that you loved. You may be wondering why no one is there. Well, this will knock your socks off, but our favorite coffee shop? Owned by demons – demons who are friends with Fred’s friend, Lorne, who owns (owned?) a bar in town. He hooked us up. So, the coffee shop is yours for the evening. Make hot chocolate. Be with each other. Catch up. I love you! Merry Christmas!  
Dawn”

Buffy finds herself gazing into Spike’s eyes as she finishes the letter. “Oh.”

“Oh,” Spike says in a soft echo. He closes the music box, cutting the fading song off before it finishes. “We should probably, um. . . talk.”

Annoyance flashes hot through Buffy. “No. No talking. Only doing. We’re good at doing together.” She picks up his free hand. “We’re going to do as we’re told and make hot chocolate first.” She plucks the hot chocolate tin out of the box and drags him toward the swinging door behind the coffee bar.

She catches a little grin on Spike’s face as he snags the marshmallow bag to bring with them. “As you say, love.”

* * *

Spike loves his lady (though she isn’t really his) as he watches her flit around the kitchen, all commanding and decisive. She flips on the lights, which turn on one at a time and end with a flickering one. She finds and retrieves the milk from the giant fridge, pulls a well-used saucepan from the shelf, and studies and then turns on the oven.

Once she has the gas on low, she gives him a pointed look. “You just going to stand there?” There’s a flash of something in her bright green eyes – something that he saw in Sunnydale. Vulnerability despite her outward surety?

He doesn’t know what to do with himself if he’s honest, and he guesses that this is similar to Sunnydale, too – at least at the end. But she doesn’t need him to be indecisive if she’s uncertain. “You need a spoon.”

“Right. And something to measure out the chocolate.” Buffy opens the milk.

Spike finds a canister full of wooden spoons and draws one out from the pack. “The place has a full kitchen.”

Taking care, Buffy slowly pours the milk into the pan and holds a hand out for the spoon. “They serve breakfast and lunch. Desserts in the evening.”

Spike slides the spoon into her hand and starts his hunt from a measuring contraption of some sort. “Why not just throw the whole lot in?”

“Um, no. It’ll be deathly sweet then.”

“Can’t have that.”

“It’s about the right balance. I’ve gone the wrong way either way.” She grimaces. “And so has Dawn with her. . . kitchen experiments.”

“How is the Lil Bit?” Spike doesn’t know why he didn’t wonder about Dawn before. When he was trapped at Wolfram and Hart, he was too afraid to let himself think about. . . really think about Buffy, Dawn, or any of the Sunnydale group beyond his insecurities. Now that Buffy’s here with him, his fears of rejection, of not being enough seem daft. Now, he wants to know everything even if he can’t bombard her with questions. Drawing Buffy out of her shell requires patience.

Buffy stirs the simmering milk. “She’s good. Well, as good as she can be given the mess we’ve got ourselves into with the Slayers.” She sighs. “Maybe we’re actually really exhausted.”

“Unintended consequences of the spell?” Spike finds a measuring cup in a cabinet full of all kinds of kitchen gadgets. It’ll have to do.

“Yeah.” She shrugs one shoulder, her chin lifting just a little. “But we’re owning it the best we can. Trying to help the girls. Make them feel welcome.”

“Setting up a training center? Complete with trainers and therapists and medical supplies and the like?” Spike wonders aloud, opening the jar of chocolate and then the crinkling package inside.

“How did you know?” She sounds surprised and amused.

His hand brushes hers as he adds one spoon full of chocolate into the milk, and he hides how much this affects him by keeping his demeanor perfectly even. “It’s what you’d do.”

“I still don’t know everyone’s name.”

“Doesn’t make you less of a leader.” Spike goes in for a second scoop.

“And there are a few central locations. We’ve been spread out all over the place. I’ve been. . . ,” Buffy pauses as Spike continues his sugary mission.

He catches the aroma of tears over the cocoa and sees the sheen in her green eyes. “Mighty lonely, I reckon.” He hesitates and says quietly, “I can relate.” The heavy sense of being alone in the law firm surrounded by people he doesn’t know and one he hates settles heavy and cold in his chest. Buffy’s bright presence makes him realize how truly alone he’s been the last few months. Of everyone, only Fred saw it. He doesn’t even think Angel knew how much emotional pain Spike had been in until he shouted at him during their fight in that dilapidated opera house.

Still stirring, Buffy puts a free hand on his forearm. “You’re not alone anymore.”

Spike leans into the lingering touch, wanting – needing it to continue. God, she’s really here. “More chocolate?”

“Yes. Three more scoops,” Buffy commands, letting go.

“Right.” He reminds himself that she’s stepping back to give him space, so he does what she requests. That done, he leans on the counter, not quite sure what to do with his hands, and asks, “Woulda thought you’d be gathering up with your pals for a nice cozy Christmas together.”

Buffy turns down the simmer a little further to prevent scorching the milk. “Giles made me come to L.A. He said I needed to go home.”

“To your dad? That makes no sodding sense.”

She smiles at Spike, and he practically melts into the floor. “Ever think maybe he might know about this?”

Spike is dumbfounded. “Know about. . . this?”

“You being back.”

Spike scoffs at the notion that Buffy’s Watcher would have anything to do with setting this. . . meeting with Buffy up. “Dawn didn’t mention Rupert.”

“Mugs!” Buffy says suddenly.

Without thinking, Spike turns and snags two white mugs hanging from the shelf. As he flips them around, Buffy has the chocolate ready and begins to pour. Spike finds the marshmallow bag and rips it neatly open, depositing a handful on top of each steaming mug. Then, he passes one of the cups to Buffy.

“Does it matter how we got here?” Buffy asks, taking him by the hand again. “Come on. Sit by the fire with me.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

Buffy lifts her eyebrows at him, a little smirk firmly in place. “You know you love a little danger.”

And he did. He grins and lets her lead him toward the flames.

* * *

On the short walk to the fireplace, Buffy makes up her mind about something. She refuses to let go of Spike’s hand until they sit. As she kicks off her boots and moves closer to him, her decision is cemented because he doesn’t know what to do with his now free hand. Letting out a little huff, she takes his hand and places it on her thigh.

At his stunned expression, she gives him a look. “If there’s one thing I know about this world, it’s that life is too short to be awkward. I could die tomorrow; you could die tomorrow. It’s happened before, and it could happen again.”

“Buffy – ”

She sits up straighter, her heart skipping guiltily. Was this the same as before? “I mean, unless you don’t want to – ” 

“Oh, no. I mean, I want to touch – ” He winces at himself.

“It was so much easier when you were accidentally touching me in the kitchen,” Buffy says.

“I think we might need to keep talking, pet.”

“Okay.” She clears her throat and then shifts around. “You go first.”

Spike emulates her movement, bringing his leg up on the sofa so their shins are parallel. He’s silent for several seconds, studying their legs. Buffy waits patiently, tugging a marshmallow out with her tongue. It’s delightfully soft and sweet.

Spike meets her eyes so quickly that her breath almost catches in her throat. The fire behind her matches the warmth in his gaze. “We left things. . . undefined. And I’m not asking for a definition. But,” he tilts his head at her with such feeling on his face that she feels relieved – almost as much relief as when she saw him again, “I wouldn’t mind it.”

She can’t help but smile shyly at him. “I wouldn’t mind it either. Definitions – even if not completely solid – are of the good.”

His shoulders sag in a marker of his own relief. “I still love you.” He lacks the bite and desperation of times past. . . when she was disgusted by him and he chained her up to make his declarations or when they were having sex and he tried to tell her how he felt.

“And you don’t believe I love you.” Powerful emotion pours over her as she remembers him burning and denying her feelings and choosing to die. . . no, choosing the save the world. Her eyes are a flood this time, and they spill over in hot streams. When he reaches for her to comfort her, she shakes her head. Instead, she leans over to set her hot chocolate on the floor. “No, don’t dismiss it in comforting me.” She takes his drink from him, setting it next to hers. “We need to talk about this.”

She needs to touch him, to be in that mindset, so she holds up her left hand and nods at him. His lips press together in assent, and he slowly raises his hand to meet hers until they sit with palms pressed together. His skin is cool and dry, and the faint leftover scar on his hand matches hers. Their mutual injury from the mystical flame still isn’t completely healed. She takes that as another sign that this conversation needs to happen. After a heartbeat or two, she takes a deep breath and slowly slides her fingers between his.

She holds on tightly, willing – she isn’t sure what. Blinking away her leftover tears, she finds his eyes again. She doesn’t see peace and surety in the blueness of his gaze like in the cavern under Sunnydale. Instead, there’s uncertainty. So, she finds courage in his vulnerability because she feels vulnerable, too.

“I love you, Spike.” When she sees that doesn’t erase his doubt, she continues, “I’ve loved you for longer than I’ve been able to say.” She swallows, her eye contact unwavering. “I-I was a mess after heaven. It took me a long time – longer than anyone knows to feel right again. To feel like myself. But different, obviously. Trauma made me numb to my feelings. It was almost like they were stuck inside of me, and I couldn’t access or even find them. Couldn’t get them out. Couldn’t feel them. But you were a big part of helping me get there. A-and since you died, I’ve been. . . you’d be proud of me, I think. I’ve been still going on living like you told me to do. I’ve been more in touch with my feelings than I have been in a long time. I-I needed more time. A lot has changed. I’m still sad and lonely; I have regrets about the things I’ve screwed up. But one thing hasn’t changed.”

“What’s that, pet?” Spike’s voice is hoarse with emotion.

“I love you.” Now, the terror hits her. She doesn’t know what he’ll say to her repeat declaration. Will her confession be enough for him to believe her this time? “I never thought I would get a chance to tell you that,” she adds in a whisper.

She’s giving him an out. . . if he needs one. She starts to loosen her grip on his hand and discovers he’s holding firm.

“No reassurances?” he asks her.

“Right. The truth.”

“Suppose I understand the trauma bit.” Spike pauses as if gathering his thoughts. “Getting my soul. I don’t regret it. Not one moment of getting it, of having it. But it hurt like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. Not just physical pain. That part’s easy. I couldn’t describe it at the time – what it’s like to wedge a piece of my old self next to the demon inside. Melding the two of us together. Knowing what I did to people. Lots of people.” He takes an unneeded breath. “To you. I clawed my way back that last year in Sunnydale in no small part thanks to you. You believing in me. Taking care of me. . . despite – ” He closes his eyes but only for a moment. “I know we both played a role in whatever you’d call our relationship. Looking back. I know we both did. And I thought. . . I know I don’t deserve you.” At Buffy’s intake of breath, he amends, “Didn’t deserve you. Didn’t deserve your love or forgiveness. And when I was dying in that cave, saving the world, there was part of me that just wanted you out of there. Safe. Living. And part of me that didn’t believe you could love me. And maybe it was the trauma talking.” Buffy wasn’t sure if he was talking about hers or his or both. “But it was too late at that point. The timing was off and I went out doing something for myself. For the world. For you.” He hangs his head, lowering their hands. “And popping out of that amulet not so many days later and being incorporeal in the lap of my grandsire - the one you loved with your whole heart? I was confused and. . . god, Buffy, I was lost all over again. I need to touch things. To feel them. To know that. . .”

She leans forward and gathers him up in her arms then, holding him tight while he cries and running a soothing hand down his back. “Reassurances deserved,” she says, putting her forehead to his. “I know what it’s like to have no body. Only I think mine was much more peaceful than yours. If you need time to. . . take all the time you need. If it helps, I love you. Pretty sure I’m not going to stop.”

He sniffs and lets out a little snort. “Pretty sure?”

When he lifts his head to cock an eyebrow at her, she is tempted to give his shoulder a little shove of frustration, but instead, she says, “I love you. I want you. I need you.” Then, she kisses him, starting with tenderness and tasting the salt of the tears and a hint of chocolate on his soft lips before deepening the affection.

He reaches over for her hips as she moves onto his lap. She longs to be close to him – as close as when they slept together there at the end of all things Sunnydale. Wrapping her legs around his waist, one hand caresses his damp cheek and the other goes up to muss his hair. She always liked freeing his curls. She missed it. He moves to her neck, nibbling at the spot that always sends a thousand tingles radiating out over her entire body. This time is no exception, and she moans briefly as he turns to lean back on the sofa, taking her with him. She catches that lazy glazed look he sometimes got in his eyes when he was caught up in sensation before, but she wants him aware and with her, so she nips at his lower lip. This elicits a growl from him, and then, he’s kissing her again, and she dips her tongue into his mouth, eager to enter him any way she can. She feels him hardening beneath her as she grinds against him, her breath coming harder and faster.

But then, there’s a narrow rush of cool air between them as he gently pushes her back. She blinks at him, and she discovers that he’s amused. She starts to frown at him, but then, he nods beyond and behind her.

She glances over her shoulder to see Dawn standing there, her arms laden with more presents. “Oh.” She scrambles back around just as the door to the coffee shop bangs open.

Xander, Willow, and Giles tumble in together. Willow carries an armful of gifts and playfully shoving Xander as they laugh about some mutual joke. Giles rolls his eyes behind his own mini-mountain of packages. They stop when they see Spike with Buffy.

There’s a brief standoff. Spike stares at them, and the new arrivals stare at Spike.

And then, Willow rushes forward to hug Spike and then Buffy in quick succession. “I brought mistletoe, but clearly, you’ve already started on the kissing.”

“W-what are you all doing here?” Buffy asks, standing to greet Xander who also approaches with a bear hug for her.

“You didn’t think we’d let our bestest friend be alone for the holidays? I mean, I know we spent it alone in Sunny-D for the most part, but now that that place is done-zo, we can’t spend it apart, can we?” Xander holds out a hand to Spike. 

Spike waits for half-a-moment and then accepts the offered shake before getting to his feet as well.

“We heard Spike was back and that Dawn and Fred were plotting something, so we had to pitch in,” Giles explains.

“You were all in on it?” Buffy is astounded even with her earlier kitchen hypothesis. Giles never said a word when he was sending her off to L.A. 

“Yep,” Willow chirps happily, shucking off her jacket and tugging off her scarf and hat. “We were. All of us, chatting on LJ. Even Giles. Merry Christmas! Or Happy Hannukah for us Jewish folk.”

“Happy Hannukah,” Buffy says, trying to fathom how Giles was using a journaling website. Then again, it’s probably right up his alley with the Watcher Diaries and all.

“Thank you for saving the world,” Dawn says to Spike, getting a side hug in.

He smiles at her. “You’re welcome, Lil Bit.”

“Hear hear to world save-age,” Xander says, clapping his hands together, and something in his tone makes Buffy realize he’s probably missing Anya. She gives him another hug, and he covers his sadness by saying, “I heard there was hot chocolate around here.”

“Kitchen,” Buffy says, pointing.

Xander wanders in the general direction of the back room with Willow and Dawn in tow.

Giles neatly folds his coat over the back of a chair and starts to follow the trio. On his way, he claps a hand on Spike’s shoulder. “Glad you’re back.” He gives Spike a brief but pointed look. “Buffy’s been lost without you. Holding her own. But lost.”

Before Spike can respond, Giles is gone, leaving Spike and Buffy alone again.

“Well,” Spike says in a playful tone. “Lost, eh?”

“Very,” she says with a grin, wrapping her arm around his. “Good thing we have people to help us.”

“Good thing.”

“You’re the best Christmas gift ever. I love you.”

Spike bends to kiss her and nuzzle her cheek. “Merry Christmas, pet. I love you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Uninterested5678 wanted no gore, no song fic, no comics fic; the only request was possibly for an Angel the Series crossover, which well, it's sort of one. hearts 
> 
> Icons from the faux LJ private messages made by me from stock images. The mustached snowman in hot chocolate made me laugh. I tried to make the image look like a real LJ private message...it's the best I could do.
> 
> Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to everyone! *hugs* Hope everyone stays safe this season!


End file.
